


Why is That Me

by AngryGinger (Error401)



Series: Bruises and Badassery [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, Ian is a badass, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Error401/pseuds/AngryGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t until three in the morning that Ian slipped out of the building, half-drunk and half-high, stumbling from one wall to another and praying that all the rapists and muggers in the South Side were already asleep or otherwise occupied.</p><p>Of course they weren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why is That Me

His head was pounding, sweat dripping into his eyes and down his neck and across his bare chest. He could barely breathe, could barely see, the pulsing lights creating a stop-motion effect with all the warm male bodies dancing in a frenzy around him.

 

He needed some time to himself, somewhere he could be himself without having to deal with all the shit his family dragged him into, Kash dragged him into. Hell, from the shit Mickey fucking Milkovich dragged him into.

 

He still couldn’t believe Kash had fucking shot him. Over Ian. Ian knew he wasn’t worth anyone getting a paper cut for, much less a bullet to the thigh. It fucked him up more than he would admit to see Mickey lying there, bleeding, on the floor of the Kash and Grab. 

 

And now Mickey was handcuffed to a hospital bed, because even though he was the one with the gunshot wound, he’d rather get sent to prison than admit he was gay. That was Mickey fucking Milkovich for ya. 

 

Ian felt a hand creep around his waist, large and tan, and he pushed it away. The body it was attached to was too tall, too broad, not Ian’s type. “Fuckin’ twink,” the guy cursed, turning to look for someone else to molest. 

 

Ian rolled his eyes, but kept moving, dancing, afraid that if he stopped it would mean he’d either have to go home to his own bed or wake up in someone else’s. Lip was starting to look at him funny, as if Ian didn’t already know what a slut he was. 

 

It wasn’t until three in the morning that Ian slipped out of the building, half-drunk and half-high, stumbling from one wall to another and praying that all the rapists and muggers in the South Side were already asleep or otherwise occupied. It was times like these he wished he was part of a normal family and had a cell phone he could use rather than relying on Gallagher resourcefulness and hoping that an emergency never popped up.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, realizing that he had to be at school for ROTC at five. Who needed sleep anyway? Not Ian Gallagher.

 

“Hey, twink!” someone called from behind him, and he turned his head blearily over his shoulder to notice some hulk of a guy jogging after him on the street. Fuck. Fucking shit fuck.

 

“Yeah?” Ian called back warily.

 

The guy caught up to him, slightly out of breath, and held a hand up to indicate that he needed a minute. “You left this,” he said, holding out a leather wallet.

 

“That’s not mine,” Ian said, annoyed. 

 

“It’s not?” the guy asked, like he didn’t know that already. “I coulda’ sworn I saw you drop it back there.”

 

“Fuck off,” Ian slurred.

 

“Bitch,” the guy scowled. “You’re a fucking ugly ginger anyway.” He stuffed the wallet back into his pocket and stomped away, boots clicking loudly against the cement in the silence.

 

“Asshole,” Ian muttered, pushing away from the wall he was leaning against. He hadn’t taken one step before an arm wrapped around his neck from behind, a small blade pressed firmly against his jugular. 

 

“Empty your pockets, man,” the person behind him said, voice and hand steady. It was clear that he had done this before and wasn’t some punk looking for a thrill. Ian wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. His breath was rancid and warm as it hit the shell of Ian’s ear. Fucking South Side.

 

“Fucking A,” Ian ground out, heart hammering against his chest. “I don’t have any fucking money, man!” To appease the guy, he reached slowly into his jeans and pulled out his driver’s license, his fake, and a few quarters in case he needed to use a payphone. 

 

“Take off the shoes,” the man pushed, the tip of the blade making a tiny, stinging prick against his skin.

 

Now Ian found himself more pissed off than afraid. Fuck that. They were his last good pair. It seemed like he was growing taller every day, and none of his clothes were fitting him anymore. These were the only shoes that were good enough for cold temperatures and stretchy enough to accommodate his inflating feet. 

 

“Take ‘em off!” the man repeated, and Ian could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck where the metal made contact. 

 

Raising his left arm to push the man’s arm away from his neck, he lashed his right elbow backwards, aiming for the solar plexus. His aim may have been a little off due to the darkness and the alcohol, but he was confident that contact was made when he felt the rank air rush from the guy’s mouth. He quickly spun and used his momentum to jab two hard lefts into his attacker’s face and, just for insurance, a chop to the throat to cut off his air supply, leaving him gasping on the ground. 

 

“Nice ski mask,” Ian said, shaking out his bruising knuckles. 

 

The man may have tried to reply, but all that came out was a gurgle. 

 

“Chicago PD! Put your hands where I can see them!”

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ian growled, turning with his hands raised to see two uniforms stepping out of a patrol car, flashlights in one hand and the other resting on their holsters. “Look, this asshole just tried to mug me, okay?”

 

“Hold it!” One shouted, drawing his gun, and Ian was confused and terrified until he noticed the mugger back on his feet and coming at him with the knife that he’d been stupid enough not to take away from him. In pure reflex, he raised his hands to protect his face, and the blade slashed across the tops of both forearms as he used them as a barrier. 

 

“Fuck!” he shouted, jumping backwards as the cops took over, violently knocking the man to the ground and cuffing him with a lot more force than necessary. As one hauled the guy up and stuffed him into the back of the patrol car, the other used his flashlight to look Ian over. 

 

Ian had pulled off his shirt and was trying to put pressure on the cuts, but it was proving too difficult, and he could only press on one arm at a time. They were bleeding and they stung like hell, but he didn’t think they were life-threatening, only superficial. 

 

“Shit, these’ll need stitches,” the cop muttered. “What’s your name, kid?”

 

“Ian,” Ian said. It was best not to use his last one. “I was just walking back home after my job and this crazy guy attacked me. Can I go now?”

 

“We need to get you checked out,” the cop answered. 

 

Ian sighed. Definitely no sleeping.

 

Half an hour later, torso covered almost entirely in his own drying blood, the police dropped him off at the emergency room, promising to return and take his statement. Ian didn’t plan on being there when they did. 

 

The doctors were busy dealing with a shooting, so he got stuck with an ancient nurse who he was pretty sure didn’t give him enough anesthesia just so she could watch him suffer. Bitch must have known he was going to take off without paying the medical bills. It took twelve stitches to close up each arm, and he was trying really not to cry just because of the stupid fucking mess his “stress free” night had become.

 

The second she was out the door, Ian reluctantly put his bloody shirt back on, wincing as the sleeves caught, and stepped out of the curtained area. He checked to make sure no one was paying attention and started walking left. He had no idea where he was or how to get out of the fucking confusing hospital, so he let his gut tell him where to go. His brain just wasn’t working anymore.

 

“Gallagher?” Ian heard. “What the fuck?!”

 

Fuck. Of course this was Mickey’s hospital. 

 

He turned around slowly to see Mickey cleaner than he had ever looked, dressed in a light blue hospital gown, curtain to his bed pushed back. “Ugh. Hi.”

 

“The fuck happened?!” Mickey yelled. Ian wasn’t sure if he was angry or not, because Mickey always sounded angry. 

 

“Nothing,” Ian said. “It was just this guy.”

 

“What fucking guy?!” Mickey demanded. The handcuffs on his wrist rattled against the metal bar of the bed. “Is that blood? Yours?”

“Ugh. Yeah,” Ian said. He looked left and right again, just in case, and slipped into Mickey’s area, letting the curtain fall behind him. “This asshole just tried to mug me. It’s a joke, right? I look like the type to carry cash, or something?” He self-consciously fingered the stark white hospital bandages wrapped tightly around his forearms. 

 

“This fucker have a name?” Mickey raised an eyebrow.

 

“I’m sure he does,” Ian shrugged. “Mickey…you okay?”

 

“I’m fucking peachy, fag,” Mickey scoffed. “I’ve had worse dog bites. Fucking Arab can’t aim for shit.”

 

Ian swallowed as guilt hit him full force. “Listen…Mickey…I’m s—“

 

“Milkovich,” a uniformed officer said, pushing the curtain back again, “time to put your ass back where it belongs.” 

 

“Name, firecrotch,” Mickey hissed. “I need a name.”

 

“I don’t know,” Ian said, feeling a little helpless as Mickey’s bed was pulled forward and he was loaded into a wheelchair.

 

“Fucking useless, Gallagher. Like always,” Mickey said with disgust.

 

“I know,” Ian sighed, frozen to his spot as Mickey and his chair disappeared around the corner. “I know.”


End file.
